


Mango Sorbet

by rainberries



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Jeralt the parental figure, Kind of fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26349688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainberries/pseuds/rainberries
Summary: After Byleth chooses to lead the Blue Lions, a house crawling with testosterone and other raging hormones, Jeralt makes it his business to personally question every male about their intentions toward his daughter. What he hadn’t expected however, was to see it backfire in his face.(In which Jeralt is a paranoid father, and won’t rest until he finds the reason behind Byleth’s new-found love for humming).
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 93
Kudos: 229





	1. The easy prey

The first time Jeralt hears his own daughter’s voice humming a song she's walking down the monastery hallways, and immediately he pinches himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. Maybe he’s grown so tired from staring at those strategic maps; his ears have begun playing tricks on him. Or maybe one of the brats tampered with his afternoon tea which caused him to hallucinate.

Hah, maybe he heard wrong.

But then, two days later she hums it again, this time while grading papers at her desk. And Jeralt doesn’t need any more hints to know something’s up.

Something fishy.

The Blue Lions’ classroom reeks of dominant male hormones, Jeralt notes mid-way through his Thursday rounds. Even if the room isn’t currently crammed up with students like it usually is, the smell persists, making him scrunch up his nose in disdain. He steps in, only to stop dead in his track at the sound of a hum. It’s too familiar to miss. It’s the same song Byleth has been humming. There’s no doubt in his mind.

Narrowing his eyes, Jeralt scans the room, searching for the source of this humming like a bloodhound during hunting season. He finds his target sitting at a desk, writing notes from a textbook onto blank paper. The boy doesn’t seem to notice his presence, so Jeralt uses this edge to pinpoint as many details as he can and makes plan to find out who that boy is.

He finds out an hour later from Alois, the boy’s name is Ashe Ubert.

* * *

Ashe understands the meaning of _wanting to melt into the floor and die_ as Captain Jeralt’s eyes pierce daggers into him. It’s like the man is scrutinizing his every aspect, but Goddess knows why. Feeling the sweat trailing down his back, Ashe curses himself for choosing to wear such a thick overcoat today. Albeit, it’s probably best to have his nervous sweating hidden from sight.

He’s got no idea what he did to elicit such hatred from the Captain of the Knights of Seiros. Desperate, Ashe rummages his brain for any particular event that might explain the situation unfolding before his very eyes. It couldn’t possibly be the book he returned an hour late last week, now could it? He- he even offered a freshly baked molasse cookie to the librarian as an apology-.

Suddenly the Captain exhales (a heavy, earth-shattering breath), and speaks.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” His hard voice startles him, nearly causes him to flinch away out of nothing but basic survival instinct.

Ashe hesitates, and staggers. “Uh- I…I mean, possibly? Except- except not…really?”

If possible, Jeralt narrows his eyes even further into two slits. “Which one is it?” 

He sounds _beyond_ impatient. Oh, gods. Ashe allows a fleeting prayer for his own soul as his limbs begin to tremble in his sitting position.

“It-it’s a no, Captain,” he bows his head, inhaling the little confidence he has left. “I mean, I do not believe I know of the reason behind my summoning.”

Jeralt stares for a second, two. It feels interminable. “Hm,” he groans. Another pause. “Let me ask you, what do you think of my daughter?”

Blinking, Ashe wonders if he heard the question right. “Y-your daughter, sir? The Professor?”

“Yeah,” Jeralt utters and to Ashe, it sounds just like a snarl. “The _Professor_.”

“I…” He accidentally bites his own tongue, thinking this couldn’t possibly get any worse. “I- I think she is a remarkable warrior, sir. A-and we are learning a lot from her. You definitely t-taught her well, sir.” A clenched-teeth titter makes it past his lips, and it only adds fuel to the tension in the room.

The Captain doesn’t move a muscle. Somehow it makes him seem even more intimidating. “'That it?”

Ashe releases a queasy breath. _'That it?_ Was there supposed to be anything else?!

Wiping the sweat that has pooled on his temple, Ashe begins contemplating the increasing probability of his foreseeable death. “Eh-” A bizarre, strangled laughs follows. “If I may, s-sir, ask for a more specific question?”

“More specific, huh?” Fire burns in Jeralt’s eyes. Ashe regrets every life decision he’s ever made, swallowing down the rock in his throat. “Okay, why don’t you start by explaining that _song_ you were humming yesterday?”

Ashe’s lips part in surprise. “H-humming?”

“That’s right.” A pause. “Around noon, I heard you humming a song while you were studying in the Blue Lions homeroom.”

A light suddenly sparks in Ashe’s head as he recalls the scene. “Oh! _That_ song. W-well, you see the Professor started humming it last week during our exam. It surprised us all, since she’s usually so quiet, you know?” He attempts a crooked smile. “I-I suppose it got stuck it my head.”

Jeralt freezes. It takes him so long to reply that Ashe wagers he should grab the opportunity to skip out. Alas, the chance flees by when the Captain at last, croaks a syllable. “Oh.”

A dragging silence. Then: “So, you do not harbor intentions other than strictly educational?”

Ashe fervently shakes his head. “N-no, I do not, sir.” He allows himself a second to remember to breathe. There might be a sliver of hope he’ll see another day.

“…I see.” Captain Jeralt seems to ponder over that piece of information, eventually relaxing his stance. “Well, then. I apologize for the inconvenience. You may take your leave.”

It’s all it takes not to jump out of his chair and burst through the door. “Thank you, sir!”

Once the kid is long gone down the hallway, Jeralt sits back in his chair, sighing as he rubs at his beard. If that Ashe boy wasn’t the reason behind Byleth’s humming, then what could be? Or rather, who?

Catherine pops her head into his doorway, a raised brow and a smirk on her face. “What did you say to the poor boy? He skedaddled out of here so fast, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d pissed himself.”

Jeralt runs a hand down his face, sighing. “Shut up.”


	2. The skirt-chaser

When Jeralt hears Byleth humming the same melody for a third time (this time while polishing her sword) he knows he has to step up his game. Intimidating fear-fraught boys just won’t cut it.

Now that Ashe Ubert is crossed off his list, it’s time to focus all his attention on another Blue Lion.

Someone with a penchant for leisure -and the reputation that goes with it.

Sylvain Jose Gautier.

* * *

Sitting on a rather uncomfortable chair with his arms behind his head, Sylvain dares a yawn. Jeralt, the Professor’s father who also just happens to be the Captain of the Knights of Seiros, has been staring at him through shielded eyes for the past ten minutes.

Not that it isn’t entertaining -it _is_ , as Sylvain has been scratching his brain wondering which flirtatious comment toward the Professor had been the last straw to officially ruffle her father’s feathers- but he has plan for dinner, and it is nearly sundown.

Finally, he settles for speaking his thoughts out loud and smirks. “Not that this isn’t a blast, but may I ask why I am here?”

Jeralt’s glare changes slightly -it reminds him of a strange mix between the Professor’s and Seteth’s reprimanding looks. Given, he looks just about ready to pounce and wreck his ass.

“Oh,” Jeralt whispers then, the quirking of his lip daunting. “I’m sure you can take a guess.”

Sylvain maintains the eye contact for as long as he can before slipping in a casual laugh, reaching for a scratch at the back of his head. “Alright, ‘ya got me.” He raises his hands up in surrender. “Was it the invitation for a midnight stroll? Is that what ticked you off?” He resists the urge to purse his lips -a tick of his, it would seem. “In my defense, she blatantly refused all of my invitations. Not to mention it was over two months ago.”

Jeralt seems torn between widening his eyes and narrowing them. “Over two months ago?”

“Yes, sir,” Sylvain nods with rhythm. “I pursued for a while, thinking: hey, I’ll take my chances, right?” He sighs dramatically, as if crushed. “Alas, the Professor rejected me, and publicly, might I add. But, hey,” he brings a hand to his chest. “With the ladies, I know when to take a hint. I _am_ still a man of honor, after all. And I know not to put all my eggs in one basket.”

Seemingly at a total loss of words, Jeralt’s mouth hangs open. “Do you…hear yourself when you talk?”

Sylvain laughs, bowing his head. “Yes, sir. I do. I have been asked that very question in the past, if you’d believe it.”

“You don’t say.” As if realizing how side-tracked they’ve gotten, Jeralt shakes his head clear. “Back to my daughter. Can I trust what you’re claiming is the truth?”

Sylvain crosses over his heart, albeit it almost looks theatrical. “I give you my word, sir.” He pauses, a certain mischief dancing in his eyes. “Although, if I can be entirely honest, there is something I have noticed as of late. And I wouldn’t feel right not sharing it with you.”

Jeralt arches a brow; somehow it does not affect his permanent frown in the slightest. “And that is?”

Checking to make sure the door is closed, Sylvain dramatically scoots closer to the table, as if he’s about to spill the world’s juiciest secret. 

“Well, around two weeks ago, I was in the training hall with the Professor as she was teaching me about lance footing. I noticed she hadn’t spoken any instructions in a while and turned around to see she had wandered off a few feet, and she-.” He pauses suddenly, building up a cliff-hanger. “She was _smiling_.”

Jeralt nearly snaps his quill in half. “ _Smiling_?” He echoes, probably louder than he had intended to as he quickly clears his throat and lowers his voice, his brows tucked down. “I have not, even once in my life, seen a _single_ smile on my daughter’s face. Not when she was an infant, not when she was a child, a certainly not in her adulthood.”

Sylvain blinks, pondering over that fact for a lingering moment. “Yikes, then it’s even worse than I imagined.”

Sitting back in his chair, Jeralt appears defeated. “Did you see _why_ she was smiling? Was there anyone else around her?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Alas, I tried to catch a glimpse, but she noticed me and _bam_ , her frown was back like it had never left.” He shrugs. “Whoever she was smiling to…they disappeared before I could see them.”

“Damn it,” Jeralt cusses, looking up at the ceiling. It appears as though a million thoughts are rummaging through his head, but before mentally retreating he snaps himself out of it and offers Sylvain a hand to shake. “Well, thank you for your help, young man. It has been…” A frown. “…enlightening.”

Sylvain smirks along with his nod. “Glad I could be of help, sir.”


	3. The little shit

After his talk with Sylvain, Jeralt decides to stay on the look-out for any strange behavior when Byleth is concerned. If she’s openly humming songs and, dare he say it, _smiling_ of her own volition, who knows what she’ll do next?

He’d be lying if he said a part of him wasn’t relieved to witness his daughter finally allowing herself to let her guards down, however his curiosity (not to call it what it actually is: his fatherly instincts) overwhelms him and turns any other thought irrelevant.

Jeralt swears he will get to the bottom of this.

And so, his interrogation rounds of the Blue Lions continue.

* * *

Much to his surprise, Manuela is the first one to offer insight on who his next victim should be -albeit probably without realising it.

“Say whatever you want,” she’s yapping on and on about Goddess knows what. Frankly, Jeralt is barely doing more than nodding along with whatever’s coming out of her mouth. Until. “But I believe the good old ‘opposites attract’ to be severely overrated.”

He suddenly stops chewing -nearly pinches a muscle whipping his head up too fast. “Pardon me, what was that?”

She stills for no longer than a millisecond, then puffs out her chest. “Opposites attract; don’t you think it is an overrated belief?” A hiccup. “I remember in my youthful days, I would fool around with this dashing mage student...” She giggles behind her palm. “Let me tell you, we’d sneak around in the potion closet and no one even suspected anything at all-.”

Dots connecting and alarms going off in his head, Jeralt springs himself up. “Excuse me,” he interrupts, turning on his heels. “I just remembered I have, uh…night rounds.”

Manuela is left sitting alone at the dinner table, blinking down at Jeralt’s untouched piece of peach cobbler. She digs her spoon into it, bringing it to her lips with a sigh. “Well, old friend,” she coos at the dessert. “At least I can always count on _you_ to keep me company.”

* * *

Felix’s scowl is ten time thicker than usual. Not only did he get interrupted and dragged away from his daily training time, but by the way the Captain’s eyes are digging holes into his face, he’s got the feeling he’s not here to compare stealth techniques.

He releases a frustrated, heavy breath. “Listen, I respect your skills and all, but if you don’t tell me why I’m here, I’ll gladly return to a far better use of my time.”

Jeralt mutters under his breath. “A far better use of your time, huh?” He chuckles, but it’s borderline concerning, like a laugh from Hubert himself. “And what exactly would that be?”

Before Felix can utter the only obvious answer, Jeralt offers a reply to his own question, his voice climbing an inch higher. “How about _I_ tell you what I think?”

“Wh-.” 

“I think,” Jeralt interrupts once more. “If you so much as _dare_ lying to me, you better believe you’ll regret it, son.”

Felix flinches in surprise, his brows low. “I’m not-.”

“I’m done playing nice-.” Jeralt suddenly slams a hand on his desk, causing a pencil to roll away and bounce off the ground. “I know what you’re thinking; using training as an alibi, making sure no one ever wonders what you’re up to.” He tilts his chin menacingly. “Well, guess what pal. I’ve been seventeen before, and I know _exactly_ what goes on in your head.”

Beginning to think the Captain has officially lost his mind, Felix weighs his options. “What the hell are-.”

“Now, admit it,” Jeralt’s voice tackles his, nearly screaming. “You’ve been seeing my daughter in secret, haven’t you?”

The last word echoes on the walls. Felix stares back at whatever enraged beast stands in front of him, his eyes the size of saucers. He feels heat creeping up his face, fighting to find his apparently lost voice. “Are-are you _mad_?!”

Jeralt doesn’t even flinch, but he clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You know, I was willing to give you a chance. But now,” he inches forward. “I’ve seen how arrogant you are. And I’ve decided, I don’t like you.”

Strangling in disbelief, Felix briefly wonders if bashing his head on the wall would be a valid solution in this situation. “Listen, old man, I don’t know _what_ you think is going on-.”

A maddening scoff escapes Jeralt’s tight lips. “Oh, so we’re using insults now-.”

Flailing his arms around, Felix chokes out his words hurriedly -at this point, _anything_ to make Jeralt stop talking. “I am _not_ seeing the Professor in secret! She’s a good sparring partner, at best!”

A switch flips suddenly, and Jeralt is seeing red. “ _Sparring_ partner?” He hisses like he’s about to cross the line into insanity. “Is this what you kids are calling it these days?”

Felix’s face is burning. He feels his guts churning in regret, in _horror_. “N-no! Shit, that’s not what I meant at all! I meant it _literally_ -.”

“If you take me for a fool, boy, you will be damn sorry-.” Jeralt pushes himself up, towering over Felix as he reaches for his sword.

Maybe this is how he’ll die after all, Felix thinks in the midst of all this chaos. The irony.

There seems to be only one thing he can say to make it out alive.

The truth.

He yells it without shame, hoping it’ll be before Jeralt’s sword cuts his head off. “I-I have feelings for someone else!”

The beast halts. He remains still, like a bull huffing through tight nostrils. “You…what?”

“I…have feelings for someone else.” Felix’s voice is lower now, half-wishing he had been struck down, in the end. He’s pretty much guaranteed the scowl he wears will never again leave his face. Not in this lifetime, anyway.

Jeralt’s face crumbles like paper turning into ash. Regret. “Ah.” 

Then, awkwardness ensues.

After an eternity of silence, Jeralt visibly swallows, pointing the exit. “You can go.”

Felix eyes him with all the hatred he can gather, growling out his answer. “Gladly.”


	4. The one from Duscur

Following the absolute _catastrophe_ of a questioning with that Fraldarius kid, Jeralt decides to lay low for a while. He admits, the situation could’ve been handled differently…some might even say better. But as sour as he feels about drawing false conclusions and throwing accusations around (quite honestly carelessly), he cannot bring himself to assume full blame. 

Not when the assumption wouldn’t even have entered his mind in the first place had it not been for Manuela’s regular bits of monologue -something he would gladly live without, by the way. And not when the Fraldarius boy’s problematic attitude had only managed to fuel Jeralt’s anger up to the point of no return.

No, the blame was to be shared. Perhaps not equally, but shared nonetheless.

In any case, a whole week had passed without anything particularly suspicious standing out. No humming nor unlikely smiling had been noticed, which gave Jeralt’s nerves a chance to simmer down.

That is, until that particular Sunday morning.

Jeralt had decided to pay his daughter a visit; knocking at her door while she had been going over battle plans in the tranquility of her own quarters. They had exchanged brief words about each other’s week and had discussed tactics, when Jeralt, just as he was about to leave, noticed a small bouquet of flowers neatly wrapped in silk and placed away by the windowsill. 

He’d tittered, pointing at it. “I didn’t know you were fond of picking flowers.”

Byleth’s gaze had followed his attention and she had suddenly frozen, so abnormally immobile Jeralt had briefly wondered if she’d stopped breathing. At last, she had turned back slowly -her cheeks flushed.

Flushed.

_Flushed._

His daughter did not get embarrassed.

Ever.

“Yeah, I…” There’d been a certain edge to her voice, one he had never heard on her before. Her lip had twitched. “It’s a new hobby of mine, I suppose.” 

Red flag. Jeralt’s nerves had bubbled back with force until they were boiling. He had swallowed, his crooked smile so obviously troubled. “Ah. That’s…that’s good.”

He had excused himself not a minute later, already planning his next move with a revived purpose. 

_To learn from past mistakes is to grow._ Words Jeralt had told his daughter at the age of six after she’d threatened to slice a poor merchant’s tendons if he didn’t offer a fairer price for a loaf of bread. _Do not dwell in what you did wrong, but instead understand why and in the end, you’ll come out of it stronger._

Wise words. Words he had used as a child’s lesson.

He hadn’t expected to apply it for himself nearly sixteen years later, while learning to hunt down potential suitors.

( _Suitors_ … The word leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.) 

* * *

Dedue sits on the guest chair of the Captain’s quarters, facing the man himself with nothing if not an optimal posture and a patient stare. The Blade Breaker has had his eyes on him for exactly fourteen minutes (Dedue always keeps his inner clock turning), and he organically reciprocates. He doesn’t mind it at all; in fact, he quite enjoys the benefits of a comfortable silence. 

Albeit, a fleeting thought reminds him not to lose track of His Highness’ whereabouts. As long as Dedue gets to take his leave in half an hour, this meeting shall pose no problem to his schedule.

Dedue blinks. Once.

This causes the Captain to release a sigh, short and controlled. As though he has come to a conclusion within the depts of his own mind.

“I’m gonna be blunt.” He speaks evenly, although in a gruff voice, drawing further attention to his next line. “Are you romantically involved with my daughter?”

Dedue does not react. He supposes it’s a fair question to ask. Perhaps he would do the same if he were to find himself in the Captain’s shoes one day, he thinks before replying with a similar tone. “No.”

“Great.”

As Dedue exits the room and walks down the hallway, he cannot help but appreciate the Captain’s forthrightness. If only all conversations were this efficient, maybe Dedue would appreciate the art of socializing a lot more. 

* * *

Leonie whistles her way up to the second floor, stopping at Captain Jeralt’s door with a series of knocks. It’s personalized; a signature greeting she often uses to inform him of her arrival without needing words. As expected of a worthy apprentice.

“Come in,” his voice calls out, barely muffled by the wooded walls.

She struts in, her repressed smile not enough to conceal the merriment she displays. “Good evening, Captain! I believe you will be pleased to know that I-.” Leonie halts, a slight crease forming on her forehead. “Captain Jeralt, is everything alright?”

The man lifts an eyebrow, croaking a short laugh - _tired_ , Leonie can tell- as he weakly flails a hand. “Ah, nothing to trouble yourself with, Leonie. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”

Her concern does not waver. “Are you sure? I can tell something’s bothering you.” She welcomes his explanation with a determined nod. “Please, if there’s any way I can help.”

Jeralt’s eyes seem to lose focus, as if weighing the pros and the cons. Eventually, he drops his forearms on his desk, the hope in his eyes replenished and plotting with a new idea.

“Actually, there might be something you can do.”


	5. The golden boy

Dimitri has to admit, he never thought silence alone could be so dreadfully intimidating. 

Apparently, all it took to prove him wrong was Captain Jeralt -the renowned Blade Breaker himself- as he assertively paced around him like a one-man wolf pack around its prey. Years of rugged experience as a mercenary, undoubtedly. 

As he swallows down his nerves, Dimitri wonders if insisting upon Dedue waiting in the Blue Lions’ homeroom had been an atrocious mistake. _No_ , he mentally shakes himself, he must learn to deal with issues himself. Bravery is only one of the many qualities to be expected of a Lord -of the Crown Prince, no less, and this proves to be the perfect opportunity to put his up to test. If there’s a silver lining to this situation, that is it.

With that in mind, Dimitri straightens himself, regaining a front worthy of his sovereign title.

“As you’re probably aware,” Jeralt, at last, speaks up. “I’ve been questioning the Blue Lions these past few weeks.” He grimaces before correcting himself. “Well, the _boys_ , mostly.”

Dimitri manages a simple nod. “I’ve received word of a few of my fellow classmates. If I may be forthright, sir, it did not leave them…” he fumbles to find the appropriate word. “…impassive.”

It was true. He’d heard gossips of Ashe swearing never to rub Jeralt the wrong way, however any additional details had been undoubtedly lacking. Felix had kept absolutely quiet on the matter, even denying the conversation had happened altogether.

On the other hand, Sylvain had been boasting about getting on the man’s good side -going as far as claiming it as a budding friendship. And of course, Dedue, who had seemed overall quite pleased with his own intervention.

Needless to say, Dimitri had expected it, but was completely clueless as to what this meeting actually entailed.

Jeralt scoffs, although there is no trace of amusement to be heard. He doesn’t address Dimitri’s comment and instead moves on with a second question. “Did they tell you what was discussed?”

“They did not, sir. At least,” He’s quick to justify his claim. “Not elaborately.” Dimitri shifts in his seat, ignoring just how much the intensity in Jeralt’s eyes makes him…uncomfortable.

“Hm,” Jeralt’s hum is a low rumble; skeptical and distrusting. He narrows his eyes before sitting down at his desk, bringing his chin to rest on his interlaced fingers. “You’re the last one on my list. Your house’s leader -royalty, no less. You’re the one who spends the most time around her. It _has_ to be you.” He pauses, his glare hardening. The words are spilling out as if he’s talking to no one but himself. “Yet, something seems _off_.”

Dimitri feels the pace of his own pulse increasing significantly. He isn’t even fully aware of _exactly what_ the Captain’s speculations are, but something in his gut tells him he should fear it.

 _Bravery_ , he sings to himself in order to stay collected. _A man’s bravery should not only surface in battle, but also in the eye of inter-social adversity._

He silently repeats the sentence like a mantra, a bizarre and falsely reassuring smile drawing itself on his face. “My apologies, sir, but may if I may inquire as to what you are referring to?”

Jeralt, yet again, jumps over the question. Dimitri begins to wonder if his words are actually reaching the Captain’s ears. As it so far appears, it does not.

“Tell me, _Your Highness_ ,” the title is grotesquely snarled through tight-teeth, and Dimitri suddenly feels like he is no more than one inch tall. “Can you swear that what shall fall from your mouth to be the truth and _only_ the truth?”

Dimitri nearly stammers, too eager to answer. “O-Of course! I swear it on my honor as the future King of Faerghus!”

But nothing could’ve quite prepared him for the shock that follows. 

“Are you the one romantically involved with my daughter?”

It takes Dimitri a grueling effort not to choke on his own tongue. His jaw falls low, and a furious blush creeps up his neck and pounces on his face. “ _P-Pardon me_?!”

Jeralt remains unfazed, and as such strips every layer of self-control Dimitri ever believed he had. “ _Someone_ is -and behind my back, no less. And since you’re the last of the Blue Lions, you can understand why the odds aren’t exactly playing in your favor, young man.”

This must be a farce, Dimitri panics in a fleeting lapse. There’s no way this conversation is _actually happening_. He’s dreaming, that has to be it; he’s found himself plunged and spiralling into an unimaginable nightmare. He pinches the skin of his own thigh, cringing when it doesn’t appear to pull him away from the scene.

“I- I swear it, sir! I admit I have profound respect for the Professor’s skills on the battlefield, as well as for her remarkable teaching abilities, but that is as far as my infatuation goes!” Suddenly terrified the words aren’t enough to convince the Captain of his good faith, Dimitri bows down as low as his sitting position can allow, his face so warm is could probably cook an egg. “I give you my absolute word!”

Evidently, his idolizing of the Professor has raised flags. He’s taken it too far, attracted the judgmental eye of the Blade Breaker himself. Oh, how Dimitri wishes he could take it all back. The embarrassment is too great to take, and he suddenly finds himself regretting having been so transparent from the very beginning.

“Let’s say I believe you,” Jeralt’s next words surprise him and he sits back up, desperate for any loose on his invisible chain. Jeralt inches closer, and, if such as thing is even possible, appears even more predatory. That being said, he hints at the possibility of an exit -a way out of this ordeal. “Because I _want_ to believe you. But I’m running out of options here.”

Jeralt pauses, the weight of his mere presence lessening for the first time -although, barely so. “If you’ll help me, perhaps it might be enough to turn my head another way.”

The prince blinks, inhaling and exhaling in order to slow down the knocking of his jugular vein against his neck. It wrongfully feels as though he’s about to make a deal with the devil. (Slight hyperbole, but nonetheless.)

“Help you, sir?” His voice sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

Jeralt grunts a single nod. “Yes.” He appears to study Dimitri’s expression and visibly drops a layer to his scowl. Is this his way of appearing friendly -well, friendly- _er_? “And don’t you worry,” he adds. His voice isn’t quite as accusing at it was a minute ago. “I won’t ask you to plunge a dagger into one of your comrades’ backs. I would simply ask what it is you have noticed or witnessed with your own eyes.”

Dimitri’s eyebrow flinches upwards; a silent question mark.

It still feels improper; immoral perhaps. Jeralt, as if reading his thoughts like he would an open book, releases a short breath. “You must understand, I am simply trying to find out the truth, and ensure the person in question does right by my daughter.”

These words hit differently, appeasing some of Dimitri’s apparent worries. He supposes that is something any worthy father might do. Although the means are questionable at best, the end is justifiable -understandable, even.

And there is obvious genuineness painted in the Captain’s eyes.

Dimitri relaxes a little further into his seat. “Ah, um…very well.” His nerves are still awake and alert, but maybe he should settle for finding common grounds. “What is it you would like to know?”

* * *

Many hours after Dimitri has left his captain quarters, Jeralt remains in his chair, pensive while mindlessly rubbing the bristles on his cheek. Only when the top of Leonie’s head turns up in his doorway does he dive back into reality with a startled breath, before he beckons her in.

“Captain, how did your talk with Dimitri go?” She doesn’t beat around the bush. It’s obvious she’s carrying news in the way her eyebrows stand slightly higher than usual.

Jeralt dismisses the matter with sigh, far more curious as to what his self-claimed apprentice has found. “As I expected, it isn’t him. He did inform me of what he noticed on his end.” He pauses, nibbling at his lip. “It seems all the signs are pointing to someone outside of the Blue Lions.”

Leonie nods eagerly. “My own search indicates the same, in fact it has been rather fruitful.” The edge of her mouth pulls up as pride swells in her chest. “I’d go as far as to say we found our man.”

Something halts in Jeralt’s veins, and all of his attention latches itself onto Leonie’s words.

She explores the details of her personal investigation -elaborates on of each and every one of her interrogations, from the more helpful bits and pieces to the ones which had ultimately been a waste of time.

She starts with the disappointment brought on by the flower mystery. No one had reported ever catching sight of Professor Byleth flower picking, nor ever hearing her mention or demonstrate any particular fondness for it whatsoever. Alas, there had been no reported sightings of the culprit behind that infamous flower, either. 

She brings up what she has heard from the guards. About the Professor being spotted exiting her room in the middle of the night. Some claim to have seen her climbing the stairs of the Goddess Tower on more than one occasion.

Leonie then tells him about her conversation with Cyril.

She nearly reenacts the scene. How Cyril had recognized _the_ song; the surprise and frown which had spread on his face when he had asked how she knew of it. Insisting upon the fact that it was a popular lullaby in in his home country -one he even used to sing with other children of the orphanage. 

It was a song, he claimed, known as _Mango Sorbet_ ; a rich fruit abundantly found in the forests of Almyra, but unknown to most in Fodlan.

She doesn’t fail to mention the information she’d pried out of a merchant, either (okay, so she had bribed him to get him to spill the beans, but that didn’t take anything away from her accomplishment). In which he’d heard (with his own two ears, he guaranteed), the Professor _laughing_.

Now, _that_ was truly unheard of.

And according to this merchant’s word, she’d been accompanied by a student. A young man, he’d said, of an uncommon darker complexion, with an attention-catching braid hanging on the side of his face and a characteristically golden cape strapped to his shoulder.

Jeralt’s eyes widen at that, but Leonie’s mouth keeps moving. She has to get it all out in the open.

At last, she tells him of her own insight.

Insight which consists of her very own house leader appearing increasingly more…pre-occupied, as of late. There’d even been a few occasions where she’d caught him day dreaming. Disappearing right after class, or even during training. 

When Leonie had asked Hilda about it, the girl had tittered, so obviously flustered and feigning ignorance on their leader’s whereabouts and strange behavior. Hilda had even faked a cough and proceeded to run to the nursery.

All but suspicious, in Leonie’s book. Because Hilda hid many tricks under her sleeve, but effortless lies unfortunately weren't one of them.

And it pains her a little to say, but every lead Leonie had gathered seems to point in one and only direction.

“Claude von Riegan,” Jeralt murmurs as he draws the final, unavoidable conclusion.

His fist clenches.


	6. The One Golden Deer

“Your footwork has improved significantly, Ingrid.” Byleth praises her student as she thoroughly assesses her stance. “Great work.”

Ingrid’s beaming expression is short-lived, quick to be replaced by a humble nod. “Thank you, Professor.”

As Byleth moves on to studying Mercedes and Annette’s techniques, Sylvain turns to his friend, feigning a pout. “Seems like I could learn a thing or two from you, Ingrid.” He grins. “What do you say of a late-night training session, just the two of us?”

Closing her eyes in irritation, Ingrid keeps her focus solely on the training sword in her hand. “Maybe you wouldn’t need additional lessons if you actually paid attention to the Professor’s instructions,” she snaps back without so much as a glance.

Then again, she doesn’t need to look to know that Sylvain is suggestively wiggling his brows. “Oh,” he breathes, and she can already feel the smugness oozing out of him. “Believe me, I _always_ pay close attention to the Professor.”

It takes Ingrid a ridiculous amount of effort not to gag. “Urgh, you disgust me.”

Before Sylvain can add more fuel to the fire, the Professor addresses him from a couple yards back. “Sylvain, could you go get the others?” The slight frown on her face is visible from where he’s standing. “I can’t instruct them when they’re this far away.”

Sylvain flashes one of his most charming smiles. “Sure thing, Professor.”

For the moment, he leaves Ingrid to train in peace (much to her relief) and strolls through the training grounds until he’s coming up to the others; squeezing into a parcel of land that’s quite obviously way too small for the four of them.

A fact easily proved by the impatient tug of Felix’s scowl.

“Hey guys,” he asserts with a hand to his hip. “Why are y’all being antisocial? There’s enough space for everyone over there.” He points behind him to where the others are training.

Ashe looks up. He appears to hesitate momentarily, perhaps considering Sylvain’s invitation -but then witnesses something in the distance which instantly causes him to recoil; the Professor, fixing Annette’s posture by pressing a hand to the girl’s lower back. He swallows, shaking his head in a nervous shudder.

“Aha,” his laugh comes out choked and broken. “There’s just more space out here. My sword skills are questionable, and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone by accident.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows meet in a frown. “Space? But you guys are all cramped up in one tiny corner-.”

“If he says there’s space, Sylvain, there’s _space_ ,” Felix suddenly cuts in, quite evidently even grumpier than usual. “Besides,” he adds while adverting his eyes. “I don’t need the Professor’s input to work on my technique.”

Sylvain closes his mouth, pausing in his perplexity. “O…kay?” 

Dimitri swoops into the conversation without warning, as if wishing to make their argument more believable. “I believe what they meant to say is that this corner has, objectively speaking, much better lighting at this time of day.” He gestures to the blue sky above their heads. “Therefore, it is the optimal location for such training.”

Letting a silence hang, Sylvain studies his comrades’ anxious, closed-up faces. Eventually, he crosses his arms. “Dedue?”

The man meets his eyes when called upon. “I shall remain with His Highness.”

Sylvain pokes out his tongue in between his teeth, scoffing when he puts two and two together. He turns on his heels, swinging a dismissive hand. “Alright, I won’t twist your arm!”

He walks across the field and back to the others, where Byleth is giving him a questioning eye. “Well?”

“Sorry, Professor,” he says whole-heartedly, raising his hands in concession. “Seems like they can’t be reasoned with.”

The Professor’s face hardens, although Sylvain can tell she’s confused. “Reasoned with?”

Sylvain bites back a smile, struggling between keeping the information to himself and spilling it right out in the open. Oh, Goddess forgive him, but he’ll just have to indulge in this one. His friends might hate him for it, at least for a while, but such an opportunity for entertainment doesn’t present itself every day. 

“I’m afraid they appear to be avoiding you, Professor.”

She blinks. Her mouth is in a thin line, but then again, isn’t it always? Sylvain shelters his disappointment; it had been silly of him to expect a bigger reaction in the first place.

“Why are they avoiding me?” Byleth eventually asks, and if it had been months ago, he would’ve been convinced she literally didn’t care for the answer. Now, though, he knows better.

“Beats me,” Sylvain answers with a shrug, hoping his mischief isn’t as clear as daylight.

But then, far away in the background, beyond the training grounds and in the monastery streets, he catches sight of Captain Jeralt accosting none other than Claude, before dragging him away. Not by the ear, but something in Sylvain’s gut tells him it’s not so willingly either.

This time, his grin breaks free as he nods over at the scene. “Actually, it looks like Claude might be about to find out for himself.”

* * *

Claude sits across from Jeralt the Blade Breaker in a somewhat laidback position, his fingers interlaced on his lap and a casual tilt to his head.

He knows why he’s here, obviously. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. And Jeralt may have the reputation of a senseless mercenary, but Claude knows better than to trust rumors. He takes them with a grain of salt. From the way Jeralt’s eyes seem to peel him apart with the intent of prying into his pool of secrets, Claude can tell without the shadow of a doubt; the man is shrewd.

“You know,” Jeralt speaks suddenly, snapping Claude’s attention away from his facial cues and onto his words instead. “When questioning the Blue Lions, I had to use somewhat disputable methods to get to the truth.”

Claude absorbs the information, letting a knowing smile come forth as he nods. “So I’ve heard.” Jeralt squints at that, silently voicing a question. Claude shrugs cunningly. “I like to keep informed.”

“Hm,” Jeralt grunts his answer. He sounds both relieved and displeased at the same time. Relieved, probably in knowing word hasn’t spilled on his unorthodox secret meetings. Displeased, because it looks like he’s just decided Claude is a threat -and it’s just a matter of figuring out how much of a threat. In any case, it’s a strange combo, and Claude’s interest in the conversation grows higher. 

If this is a game, Jeralt has just made the first move. 

And Claude is ready to play along.

“I was initially going to use a similar technique with you,” Jeralt explains, surprisingly quite transparent. The man is always stern -noticeably different from Teach’s stoic faces- but the expression ruffling up his face has got to be a record. “But now that I’ve got you in front of me, I’ve come to realize I won’t need to use tricks.”

Claude raises a playful eyebrow. What an interesting turn of event.

“Oh? And why not?” he asks, feigning innocence.

There’s a flare in the Captain’s eyes. Perhaps with the raw intent to kill. “Because I know it’s you.”

Even though he had braced himself for an impactful answer, Jeralt’s words still knock him down like a bucket of freezing water would. He partly feels like he’s eight years old again, about to receive a lecture (or perhaps a beating) for attempting to slip poison into yet another noble’s drink. 

It’s different from when Judith calls him ‘boy’, or from when Nader calls him ‘kiddo’, but the fact remains that Claude hauls his nerves away -the ones making him feel like he’s about to get squished under somebody’s thumb. Still, he doesn’t squirm. He won’t give Jeralt the satisfaction.

Instead, his easy smile shines brighter. “It’s me…what?” The teasing timbre of his voice is evident, but purposefully so.

“Don’t play dumb with me, kid.” Jeralt barks back. 

His patience seems to thin, and Claude eventually drags a sigh of surrender. “If you wish to play on the same page, I’m gonna need further instructions, I’m afraid.”

Unexpectedly, a rapacious smile creeps onto Jeralt’s mouth. “Let’s just say I like to keep informed, too.” Claude blinks, feeling like he’s struggling more than usual to hold the reins. “And some of the things I heard make me question the depth of your…interest.”

Okay, so it’s abundantly clear Jeralt holds some kind of knowledge. And he’s using it to play out in his favor.

Huh, seems like someone else is digging into Claude’s very own bag of hoaxes.

Interesting, indeed.

He may have to pull a trick or two from the art of improvisation, but it’s going to take much more for Claude to be swept off his feet.

“With all due respect,” he replies with a scoff, his smile almost sympathetic. “It wouldn’t be so far off from the truth to say half the students harbor some kind of a crush on your daughter.”

It might be a cheap jab at his fatherly worries, but it’s still the truth. 

It appears to strike a chord, although very briefly. Jeralt’s face scrunches up in distaste, reminding Claude of a shriveled piece of fruit. 

“As much as it pains me to say,” Jeralt mutters through with a tight jaw. “It seems whatever it is,” he waves at Claude. “Isn’t just one-sided. My daughter may not be affected by the painfully desperate attention of others, but lately I’ve witnessed changes. The humming, the smiling, the _flower_ -.”

“Ah, _that_ -.” Claude steps in before it’s too late, reaching out for the reins that are slipping out of his grasp. “We were discussing different types of poisonous flora, and when I stumbled upon it in the forest, I thought wise to bring it to her, that’s all.”

“I said don’t play dumb with me.” Something in Jeralt’s tone tells him he’s one move away from calling a checkmate. Claude’s smile begins to strain. “There’s something going on between you and my daughter. It’s just a matter of _what_ , exactly.”

Well, it appears Claude has reached an impasse.

So he swallows the defensive words threatening to come out, fearing that it will sound like a blatant lie, and instead silently sits back in his seat. Jeralt studies him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Care to fill me in?” he asks, and he knows he’s winning.

Claude curses himself within the private walls of his own mind. Is this conversation really happening? He must’ve gone wrong _somewhere_ -he’ll have to replay the exchange later to figure out exactly where he failed, and where he signed off his own death warrant.

His smile weakens, but remains in place. “I would only be speaking for myself, and I fear what I can offer has very minimal value.”

“Oh,” Jeralt hisses. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Claude holds eye contact as long as he can, but he knows he’s only dreading to admit defeat. At last, a sigh escapes in the form of a laugh. “Alright, alright. You win.” He shakes his head. “Ask away.”

“I already did,” Jeralt groans back. “You can stop beating around the bush; I want to know _what_ is going on between you and my daughter.”

Letting a beat pass by, Claude digs his hands into his pants pockets. “If I answer in all honesty, do you promise not to bash my head in?”

The Knight narrows his eyes. “I will do no such thing.”

“Great,” Claude rises from his seat. “Then I guess that settles it!”

“Sit your ass back down,” Jeralt instantly snaps.

Claude complies, his smile sly. At least that’s one win for him. Jeralt rolls his eyes, mumbling the rest reluctantly, like someone’s holding a dagger to his neck. “I…promise not to bash your head in.”

After scanning his features for any sign of dishonesty, Claude relaxes. “Thank you.” 

And then he inhales, summoning the courage he needs to answer the question.

“Teach and I…are friends.” Claude ignores the need to rub at his neck. “Yes, people say it’s strange, unconventional, even, for her to spend so much time with a student outside of the house she teaches -another house’s leader, no less.” He chuckles. “But we’re friends, and that won’t change no matter what people may gossip about.”

“That being said,” he keeps going, not giving Jeralt a chance to cut in. “I can’t deny that she truly is one of a kind. Hell, explains why so many people are drawn to her.” He pauses with a scoff. “We grew closer, and she quickly became someone I could trust with my life.” He meets Jeralt’s eyes for the first time since the start of his monologue. “And I can’t speak for her, but something tells me that trust is shared.”

“I don’t know what the future holds.” Claude says truthfully. “But I do know I would like her next to me when my dreams come true.”

For a long time Jeralt is silent.

Perhaps this isn’t what he had expected. Probably something among the lines of evasive and vacuous. Claude can’t help but wonder if this counts as a second win for himself. Depends on what the man says next, he supposes, but bottom line is he still has his head on his shoulders.

Finally, Jeralt clears his throat. “Just tell me you two haven’t…been…physical-.”

Claude nearly spits out his own tongue. “N-no! Not at all, _Gods_. I told you, I can’t speak about the future, but for now this isn’t what this is, _at all_.”

He’s all too aware that the tips of his ears are burning.

Even so, it appears to ease Jeralt’s concerns. “Good. That’s…” He shakes his head suddenly, heaving a sigh. “Now I can sleep at night.”

This time, Claude allows a hand to rub at his neck. Dear Goddess, he’ll take Judith walking in on him with a hand down his pants any day over _this_.

(Upon consideration, maybe not.)

“You know,” Claude says offhandedly, a brow furrowed. “I’m not sure your daughter would be thrilled to know you’ve been going behind her back for weeks.”

Jeralt huffs a groan. “I can’t say I’m proud of what I’ve been doing, and I’ll have to talk with her eventually. But being the father of a sheltered kid…sometimes it messes with you.” His gaze loses its focus, like he’s recalling distant memories, and for a moment he almost looks sad. “It’s a protective instinct. You’ll understand one day, when you become a father yourself.” Panic and disgust spread across his face. “Eh, actually, forget I said that.”

Claude suppresses a chuckle, peeling himself away from the mental image.

Just as he begins thinking the tension in the room has lessened considerably…

“You’re off the hook for now, kid.” Jeralt says as his eyes pierce through his. “But rest assured that if you ever use her in any way, I will dislocate your head from your shoulders and feed it to the wyverns.”

At that, Claude grins, and titters without much restraint.

“I do not doubt the sincerity of your words, sir.”

* * *

After leaving the captain quarters, Claude saunters through the monastery hallways. His feet have a mind of their own, as he can’t seem to get past that conversation with Jeralt. If anything, it summons questions he apparently has for himself.

Suddenly, as he passes by a darker alley, someone grabs the fabric of his uniform and tugs hard, pulling him into the shadows with a startled (and embarrassing) yelp.

He blinks, only exhaling when he sees Byleth’s hand loosening her grip on his clothes. 

He never realized how small how hands were before.

Huh.

“Gee, Teach.” Claude laughs. “Why so shady?”

She’s looking up at him, and even in the shade he can see how sharp the blue of her eyes is. But her face is veiled in seriousness, and her words fight for his focus.

“My father.” She says simply, then blinks. “Sylvain explained everything.”

Claude arches a brow, folding his arms. “Everything, huh?”

“Well,” she corrects. “He explained what my father had been up to, and forced the others into admitting the same.” She pauses. “Right after we saw him drag you away.”

He studies her face; she looks like she’s not giving up anytime soon. With that in mind, he sighs, but his mouth quirks up. “Your dad pulled me aside for a bit of a chat. Wanted to talk about my intentions.”

Although it’s elusive, Byleth appears surprised. Still, she doesn’t flinch. “Your intentions?”

“With you,” he clarifies. His grin widens at the prospect; the curiosity of her reaction suddenly overlapping everything else he might’ve felt today. “He asked if there was anything between us.”

Byleth blinks, looking down at her feet as if deep in thought. After a while, her gaze travels back to his. “What did you say?”

Claude takes his time before answering. There’s a certain curiosity to her, too, although subtle. Almost desperate to hear his words, if he dares say so. 

Eventually, he shrugs, leaning onto the stone wall to his left. “Only a slight deviation from the truth.” A teasing smile. “That our companionship is built on mutual trust; that we are, in my humble opinion, friends.”

Byleth drinks in his words, studying them thoroughly. “If that’s a slight deviation from the truth, what is the truth?”

“Now, that’s a viable question, isn’t it Teach?” He can’t help himself. The opportunity is right there, he has to take it. His interest sparks up, the air around them growing thicker. "What _is_ the truth?”

There’s a crease forming between her brows. With her, even the faintest of reactions is rewarding. “Are you trying to deflect the question?”

He narrows his eyes, a roguish grin exposing his teeth. “Are _you_?”

It appears they’ve been inching closer without noticing, as he can now feel Byleth exhaling an irritated breath. He feels scrutinized under her stare, but Byleth withdraws slightly, as if exposing herself to him. 

“…No.” She whispers, although assertively. Without hesitation, she answers the question, and catches him off guard. “The truth is… I do not know.”

Her eyes soften. If she hadn’t been standing so close, perhaps he would’ve missed it. “I don’t have all the answers. And you could say I’m bad with words and navigating…emotions.” She grimaces as she pronounces it, as if it had tasted bad in her mouth.

“All I know is that…sometimes I feel like I’ve known you forever.” Claude’s heart rate picks up; latching onto her words like a mad man. “As irritating as you can prove to be at times,” the briefest purse of her lips. “With you I think I…I feel...” Her brows are furrowed, like she’s boggling her mind to find the right description. Finally, her brows soften, almost in relief at having pinned down her thoughts. “Happy.”

Claude’s pulse is hammering away, and he can only guess how ridiculous his awe-struck face must look right now, but he can’t say he cares that much. 

He pushes himself off the wall and clears his throat. “Sheesh, ever so forward, huh? You sure make it hard for a guy to fight his feelings for you.”

She widens her eyes, peering at him under those dark eyelashes. Claude’s smile is unruly, and slowly, carefully, he reaches a hand and brushes a lock of hair away from her eyes and behind her ear.

Byleth seems to melt into the touch, and even though he had planned on stopping there, his hand has plans of its own. He keeps it in place, a thumb delicately grazing over her jaw, then traveling to her bottom lip. He has lost complete control of himself, but he doesn’t really give a damn.

Byleth doesn’t seem to give a damn either because her lips part under his touch and she inhales, breathing his name in a murmur so vulnerable it might break right then and there. Something in Claude’s gut flips over and he leans in, drawing his lips closer and closer to hers-.

And then she splays a hand flat on his mouth, painfully knocking him out of this dreamlike state as she pushes him back a few inches.

“Despite all of the above,” her voice is hard once again as she peels her fingers off his face. “You are a student, and I am still a professor. It would prove most unprofessional of me to allow boundaries to be crossed.”

Claude blinks, feeling the heat on his cheeks. The only thing that proves that this _really_ almost happened (and therefore isn’t a sad fruit of his own vast imagination) is the lingering flush on her own face. 

“Ouch, Teach,” he says after a breath to recover his bearings. He rubs the back of his head, his smile somewhat sheepish. “You drive a hard bargain. But you know,” he adds, wit dancing in his eyes. “Technically, I shall relieve you of your professor duties in two months time, when I graduate.”

Byleth appears to have already gone back to her normal self, as unfair as that is. She licks her lips, and _goddamn is she doing that on purpose because he swears a part of him dies-._

“Better cross the days off your calendar, then.”

She strikes a cruel smile; a killer one that leaves his insides squirming with disbelief and yearning for more. Brushing past him, she begins walking off. Claude turns to follow her, hope both crushed and fueled into brighter flames.

“So, that means one day?” He asks innocently, going after her.

Her smile widens as she hums. “Possibly.”

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BONUS:
> 
> "Father, we need to talk."  
> "...well, _shit_."
> 
> Aaaaaaand done! I had so much fun writing this last chapter, the conclusion to Jeralt's terrorization of the Blue Lions (+ Claude). Thank you all for reading, see you in my next Claudeleth fic! xoxo


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